Shame
by ElfieWrites
Summary: Short monologue by Helga.


Author's note: Based off of the song "Shame" by Stabbing Westward. Yet another inner monologue type thing. I'm not sure why I write so many.

-----

I am Helga G. Pataki. But I don't know who exactly she is any more.

I used to measure myself only in relation to you. I think that's how we all measure ourselves. We all know who we are only in relation to the other people in our lives. Our real validation of ourselves begins occurring only when we meet others. For me, that was the fateful rainy day when we were both 3 years old, on our first day of preschool. While the influences that formed me also came from our other classmates over the years, you, as the first person I met outside of my family, remained most important.

It might seem pathetic, but I only see myself as reflected through your eyes. I judge myself based off of what you see, or what I believe you see. You always saw me as that mean girl who needlessly tormented you for so long. Occasionally there was a peek of a nicer girl that sometimes managed to squeeze out for a short time before being smothered by the usual ugly bully part. I know you were frustrated by that, and disliked it, so that's what I felt too. I'm disgusted by myself too, and I hate it.

I've come to realize it wasn't healthy to base myself off of such a shaky foundation. I shouldn't have relied so much on the opinion of a boy I didn't understand, who didn't understand me. You always tried to coax out the better part of me, but after years of trying you realized the futility and gave up. And the death of your belief in me tore apart the seams of Helga G. Pataki. Without you to validate me, I have no idea who the hell I am any more.

I wander around, confused about my true identity. That nice part you reached for, in fact, was supported almost solely by you. You held up the main part of it, anyway. And without you there, it all started crumbling. I started crumbling. Now I wonder why I bother trying. Why do I bother to continue this shallow life? It pains me to admit you're gone now. You're not here to care any more, and even from afar you deny me. I know you still write and talk to others. Everyone but me, it seems. The longer you deny my existence, the more my pain intensifies.

Even with your shoulder turned to me, I still ache for you. It's killing me. I need someone to ache for me the same way. I once hoped it would be you, but now I've realized that's an impossible wish. I should have realized that long ago, and given up this fruitless devotion. Alas, I continue to dream and you will continue to ignore that I'm alive.

I never dreamed you would move from Hillwood. Far, far away from our childhood home. I never dreamed you would be so distant in body too. My last chances at telling you how I feel had to fly away with you on that plane far too soon for my liking. I guess I idealistically hoped I'd have years, a whole lifetime, to tell you it all.

Now you're long gone, and without you I have nothing to cling to. I still have a shrine to you, and my books of poetry. I spent a whole book writing about how I wish you would come back, how I wish that this whole thing was nothing more than a nightmare, and how I've realized too late what I needed to do. Now I stare into my mirror and don't recognize myself. I'm tired of the shell that's left of Helga G. Pataki. She's no one without you but a tall, gangly girl with big ears and a unibrow. I'm still mean, and rude, and sarcastic, and a bully, but it's with a routine listlessness.

If only one day I could find a letter from you in my mailbox. If only one day the phone would ring, and it would be your voice on the other end of the line. If only you would acknowledge my existence, and show you haven't so soon forgotten the personal bully and secret admirer you left behind here in Hillwood when you took off on that jet to start a new life in a new state.

Once, through a poem, I swore I would die for you. If danger ever threatened you, and it looked fatal, I would gladly take the fall to show you my devotion and allow your beautiful soul to live on for another day, to brighten the lives of all that you've met. I swore I would die for you, and only you, but I never meant quite like this. I never meant that I would lose my soul and my identity to you. I never meant you could take away my essence and abandon it while you moved on to better things.

No, I certainly never meant like this.

I'm still here in the physical sense, but I don't know if it really counts as being alive. I don't know if I'm real, without you here. What is left of Helga G. Pataki when her Arnold is gone? I can't find anything but guilt and shattered dreams. I'm left to sulk among the regrets in my own head, and I've lost my sense of which world is more real. My life feels empty, and shameful. I wish you could answer me, Arnold. How can I exist without you?


End file.
